


Your Son, Kieran

by blarfkey



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alistair is both terrified and aroused, Awkward Flirting, Epistolary, F/M, Gen, Mature Mom! Morrigan, all those father/son fuzzy feels, awkward dad! Alistair, except they both still like each other, kieran weirds Alistair out but he's trying!, that whole vibe of a divorced couple who puts aside their difference for the sake of the kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25936651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarfkey/pseuds/blarfkey
Summary: “Does your mum know where you are?” he asks. “Or your father perhaps?”It just occurs to him that the battlements are very high, the fall on the other side very far below, and if this were his kid, he would probably completely freak out.“Mother is talking to the Inquisitor,” says the kid. “And my father is right here.”At thirty one years old, on the run from his own people, fatherhood hits Alistair like a shovel to the face.
Relationships: Alistair & Kieran (Dragon Age), Alistair/Morrigan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 111
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	Your Son, Kieran

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prix/gifts).



> Thank you Prix for such an awesome prompt! I had so much fun writing these three and their weird, makeshift family that half this fic was written in, like, the first day after I got the assignment.

“You’re a Grey Warden.”

The voice startles the daylights out of Alistair. He jumps so high he nearly falls over the battlements. It’s soft and high pitched and definitely not an adult’s voice. Alistair looks down and sees a young boy, dark haired with familiar looking eyes.

There’s something so familiar about him, but Alistair has never seen this kid before.

“Uh. Yes. I am,” he says. “I’m Alistair.”

Something in the kid’s eyes light up. Alistair has had plenty of experience with the kind of hero worship he gets from children on occasion but it never fails to make him deeply uncomfortable. He doesn’t really feel like he deserves it. And Maker forbid any kid to walk away thinking they want to be like him. He wouldn’t wish the taint on his worst enemy. Well, maybe his worst enemy but definitely not his second worst enemy.

“Does your mum know where you are?” he asks. “Or your father perhaps?”

It just occurs to him that the battlements are very high, the fall on the other side very far below, and if this were his kid, he would probably completely freak out.

“Mother is talking to the Inquisitor,” says the kid. “And my father is right here.”

It takes a moment for those words to sink in. His insides seize up, not unlike the time he ate some very bad cheese.

“Who . . .is your mother?”

“Mother is the inheritor, she who awaits the next age.”

Yeah. That clears everything up.

“Um. Right. What is that again?”

The boy huffs, exasperated. “She’s the Witch of the Wilds!”

Oh shit.

Oh  _ shit _ .

Two thoughts occur simultaneously:

  1. The kid looks so normal. Where are the demon eyes? The tentacles? The scary long fingernails?
  2. Oh Sweet Maker, if Morrigan catches Keiran up here alone with him, she will castrate Alistair and force-feed him his own testicles.



“Did you read my letters?” Keiran asks and the question spears him like a knife. Or one of Morrigan’s little ice spells.

“You know, you didn’t answer my question,” Alistair says, trying hard to keep the panic from his voice.

The kid gives him a flat look. His eyes are so . . .old. They are the only indication that the kid is not normal at all. “You didn’t answer mine.”

“I – I read every single one of them.”

A smile – so soft, so innocent – spreads across Keiran’s face. Something in Alistair’s gut flutters and flops over.

The idea of fatherhood hits him like a shovel to the face.

* * *

  
  


The letters started showing up about five years ago. They magically appeared on his desk in Vigil’s Keep, sealed with a wax that only dissolved at his touch and burned everyone else. Alistair opened the first letter with great trepidation only to discover three lines in wobbly, barely legible script and a crude drawing of a stick figure and a tree.

_ Hello  _ _ Alister _ _ Alistair _

_ Today I saw a big tree. It was very big. It had a  _ _ scuril  _ _ squirrel. I gave it one acorn. _

_ Your son, _

_ Keiran _

Underneath was a short note in spiky, elegant handwriting:

_ Kieran is practicing his handwriting. He requested to write to his father. Perhaps you may enjoy these little missives or perhaps you will burn them. It matters not. Either way, do not bother replying for no one knows where we are and I intend to keep it that way. _

_ ~ Morrigan _

The first few letters he read against his better judgment, and then stuffed them in a drawer where he didn’t have to look at them. They made him feel something weird and squirmy and suspiciously like guilt.

Which he shouldn’t be feeling at all. Morrigan made it perfectly clear the child didn’t belong to him whatsoever. In fact, until that first letter Alistair had forgotten he even had a son. Which was great! For five years he had put that entire awkward, fucked up night behind him and carried on as usual.

But the letters made several things painfully clear:

  1. He could never again forget he had a son.
  2. His son _knew_ who he was and
  3. Probably thought Alistair didn’t want him or care for him at all. And there was no way Alistair could convince him of the contrary.



However, if his son secretly thought Alistair abandoned him, it never came up in his letters. As the years progressed, so did Keiran’s handwriting.

_ Hello Alistair, _

_ Today I finished my first grown up book. It took forever. It was about history but some of the things were not right, but I do not know how I know that. Mother says  _ _ peeple _ _ people get history wrong all the time but why would they put it in a book if it was wrong? I think I want a story for my next book but all Mother has is history and magic! _

_ Do you like books? _

_ Your son, _

_ Keiran _

The letters get longer, the spelling mistakes fewer, the subject matter more personal.

_ Hello Alistair, _

_ Mother says every letter should start with “dear” and not “hello” but I like “hello” better. It feels like I’m talking to you. It’s good to talk to someone who is not Mother or my tutors. I try talking to other children but I always say something strange so now they stay away. It’s alright. I always have Mother and I have you. Mother says you also used to say strange or awkward things but people liked you anyway. I wish you could tell me how you did that. _

_ Your son, _

_ Kieran _

Though the guilt stays, a constant, niggling voice in his head, his love for those letters grows. Eventually he takes to carrying his favorites around on missions, reading them late at night by the fire during his watch. No one knows about them, not even Moira, though the big shot Hero Of Ferelden quickly became too busy to even have that conversation, even before she took off.

* * *

“You really shouldn’t be up here,” says Alistair.

“I am supposed to be doing my studies,” Keiran agrees. “But I saw you in the great hall and I followed you.”

“And how do you think your mother is going to feel about you skipping your studies?”

“Mother always forgives me.”

Well, lucky for him.

“Trust me, the same does not apply to me. So how about I get you back to your tutor and we can talk on the way there?”

“Alright. I have a room by the gardens. That’s where my books are.”

“So what are you reading about now?”

Keiran is all too happy to launch into a summary of the latest book on magical theory that Alistair does not understand a single word of. Alistair is all too happy to usher him away from the battlements and towards the safety of the ground. They have an enjoyable, if mostly one-sided, conversation until the sight of Morrigan at the bottom of the stairs stops him in his tracks.

“Kieran,” she says, arms crossed over her chest – which is still just as exposed as it had been ten years earlier.

“Mother,” says the kid. “Look, I found him.”

“Yes. I can see that.” Morrigan keeps her tone frustratingly neutral. “I hope you weren’t bothering him.”

“Not at all,” Alistair assures hastily, putting a hand on Keiran’s shoulder. Her eyes zero in on the gesture and he quickly pulls his hand down. “I was happy to see him.”

“I’ll go back to my studies now,” says Kieran. He looks up at Alistair hopefully. “Do you think we could talk again?”

“Of course!” says Alistair. He looks over at Morrigan. “With your mother’s permission, obviously.”

“We’ll discuss this more after you’ve upheld your end of the bargain, Kieran,” says Morrigan with a pointed look to her son.

“Yes, Mother,” Kieran sighs. He gives Alistair a small bow, which Alistair awkwardly returns, and heads off across the courtyard.

“My son,” she says, watching him. “Never quite where you expect him to be. Naturally.”

“Listen, he just showed up out of nowhere,” he says. “I didn’t  _ lure _ him up there.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You speak as if you did something wrong.”

“I know how protective you are of him.”

“Tis true, I am. But you’re his father and Kieran has been most anxious to meet you since you arrived. I was not surprised he sought you out the moment I was out of sight.”

The idea of Keiran counting down the moment he could escape to meet his father does something funny to Alistair’s chest. “He’s certainly not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

Something utterly feral, knowing Morrigan. Some wild child from the woods, or some strange demon baby with glowing eyes and tentacles for hands. Definitely not a straight laced, quiet little boy with perfect manners and spotless clothing.

“I didn’t think he’d be so. . .normal.”

“He _is_ a normal boy,” Morrigan says archly.

“Yes, but he’s so quiet and well behaved. Does he not streak naked through the woods, turning into a giant spider and scaring the life out of the local villagers?”

“That is indeed an honorable pastime for a child,” she says, the corner of her mouth tugging up in the suggestion of a smile. “But Keiran spent part of his life in the Orlesian Court and they tend to frown on that kind of thing.”

“The Orlesian Court?” Alistair’s eyebrows rise up. “That’s . . .the last place I thought you would ever want to be.”

“The Game is fascinating to watch and fun to influence. But I stayed mostly because the kind of education they could provide my son was unparalleled.”

“I didn’t think you’d find Orlesian style education valuable,” says Alistair. “I mean, they did invent the Chantry.”

A shadow crosses her face. “If Keiran becomes an outsider, I want it to happen because he desired it, not because his mother’s decisions gave him little other choice. I do not want his opportunities limited by anything, even my own beliefs and desires.”

Alistair stares at her. Who was this person?

“You’ve changed,” he says, feeling oddly proud of her.

Morrigan glares at him. “It’s been a decade, Alistair. Everyone changes. Now, if you will excuse me.”

With that she stalks off towards the gardens, leaving Alistair a little flummoxed.

Well. Chilly as always and impossible to read and never reacts the way he expects.

Maybe she hasn’t changed after all.

* * *

Keiran finds him again the next day after dinner, once again scaring the daylights out of him. He moves like a ghost, watching Alistair and the Seeker spar with each other in the courtyard. Alistair has no idea the kid’s even there until a tiny voice pipes up as Alistair leans against the tree and wipes sweat off his brow.

Cassandra’s a hell of an ass kicker.

“I met the Inquisitor today.”

Once again, Alistair jumps enough to send water sloshing out of his canteen.

“Oh yeah?” he says, recovering. “What did you think of her?”

“I didn’t expect her to be an elf.”

“Yeah, I think the rest of the world is with you on that one. She’s pretty nice, though, and I’m not just saying that because she saved my ar – my butt in Crestwood.”

“She is nice. I said I knew she was an elf because her blood was old.” Kieran winces, wringing his hands as he repeats the conversation. “That was a strange thing to say, wasn’t it?”

“Not at all,” says Alistair, lying through his teeth. “I mean, it’s a fact about her like anything else. She’s probably grateful you didn’t say her ears were big or she was freakishly tall for an elf.”

Kieran smiles in that slow, innocent way of his, relaxing instantly with the reassurance and strange sensation washes over Alistair. “I thought she’d be scarier, especially with her big sword. Mother said she would be scary.”

“I’ve never known your mother to be afraid of anything.” Except, perhaps, her own mother, he mused silently.

“She says people fear the next age if it comes too soon.”

“Right.”

“But I like her. I think Mother does too.”

“Speaking of swords, I’m betting your mum never let you hold one.”

Kieran shakes his head vigorously. “Never.”

“Would you like to?” he asks with a warm smile.

The kid says nothing for a moment, and if it weren’t for the powerful temptation shining in his eyes, Alistair might think he miscalculated.

“Mother might be angry,” he says at last.

“Who says Morrigan has to know? It’ll be our secret.”

“Alright,” says Kieran. “I can feel if she’s coming.”

Alistair makes a show of looking around for her just in case before picking up his sword and handing it to Kieran hilt first. The kid takes it in hand, looking both exhilarated and strangely . . .resigned. As if it were old hat.

“Alright, so you’re going to want to hold it –”

“Like this,” Kieran finishes, placing his hands exactly where Alistair would have told him to grip it.

“Right,” says Alistair. “Have you held a sword before?”

“No. But I remember.”

“Right,” Alistair murmurs. 

Thank the Maker Kieran is standing in front of him while Alistair schools his expression back into nonchalance. The kid already feels like a bit of an outsider, despite Morrigan’s best efforts, and Alistair doesn’t want to make it worse. Especially not after all those times Kieran confided in him in his letters.

“Okay. So you know how to grip it. Do you know the proper stance?”

“I – maybe you could show me? I could remember it wrong.”

Bless him, he’s throwing Alistair a bone. Whatever. He’ll take it.

They spend quite a while in the courtyard, progressing from various stances to swinging to Alistair allowing him to hit a practice dummy. There’s some trepidation at first – the sword is probably almost as heavy as the kid for starters – but they soon melt away, replaced by peels of startled laughter that Alistair could bottle up and live on.

As the sun started slipping behind the mountains, Kieran gasps. “She’s coming!”

“Shit! I mean – uh – just throw the sword. On the ground.”

“But wouldn’t that –”

“It’s fine!”

It’s not fine, but it’s better than Morrigan catching them red-handed. Kieran tosses the sword down in the grass and Alistair hastily shoves it with his foot so it skids underneath the practice dummy just as Morrigan rounds the corner.

“There you are,” she says. “You’ve been missing since dinner. What have the two of you been doing all this time?”

Kieran shoots him a rather panic look – clearly unable to lie to his mother.

“We were just . . .chatting. Admiring the scenery,” Alistair says.

“Ah,” she says with that twinkle in her eye that he’s seen too many times before. She doesn’t buy it at all. “Tis very beautiful in the . . .courtyard.”

She looks down at Kieran and smiles. It’s the softest expression he has ever seen her wear. It’s almost unbelievable, like maybe some kind of demon has possessed her. “It’s time for you to wash up and get ready for bed, I think, little man.”

A normal kid would whine and ask for more time, especially in this last little bit of daylight, but Kieran sighs and nods. “Yes, Mother.”

He looks up at Alistair. “Thank you for – for chatting with me,” he says, stumbling a bit over the lie.

“Any time,” says Alistair. “I had fun.”

“I did, too. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Kieran,” says Alistair.

He and Morrigan watch the kid head up the stairs into the castle.

“Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you two were doing,” she says, turning toward him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ten years have passed and you are still a horrible liar.”

Alistair winces. “Don’t be angry at him – it was my idea. I talked him into it.”

“Yes, I’m sure it took quite a bit of convincing,” says Morrigan dryly. “But I’m not angry, not at him nor at you.”

He doesn’t quite believe that. “Really?”

Morrigan shrugs. “My son is not a reckless idiot and I would hope, after all these years, you would have enough proficiency with a sword not to let a child hurt himself with it.”

“I would never let anything bad happen to Kieran,” says Alistair, vaguely sick at the idea.

Morrigan gives him a rather piercing look. “If I didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t be seeing him.”

It feels like he has passed some kind of test.

“I – good. That’s good.”

* * *

It becomes a pattern – every day Kieran finds him and they chat about his studies or favorite animals or whatever crosses the kid’s mind. Sometimes they practice sparring with wooden sticks, though Kieran is too softhearted to land any hits and Alistair is too terrified. Inevitably Morrigan will appear and send Keiran on his way to a bath or to dinner or to his books and then linger for several minutes afterward.

It’s not exactly catching up – Morrigan remains tight-lipped as ever about her activities in the last ten years and even more so about her duties with the Inquisition. But Alistair knows she has no moral qualms about ignoring his entire existence so she must be talking to him because she wants to.

Sometimes they reminisce on their year together – Morrigan reminding him of all the stupid, foolish things he’s done or said. Alistair struggling valiantly to do the same – it’s so much harder to find cracks in her armor than in his. He feels like a turtle on its back with her, while she mercilessly pokes his soft insides with a stick.

But, unlike ten years ago, it doesn’t feel quite so malicious this time around. She laughs at him with, dare he say it, fondness?

Usually they just talk about Kieran. It’s the safest topic of conversation they have and apparently her favorite. He’ll report what he and Kieran did together that day and she’ll share some story of what he did or said as a smaller child. These tidbits come reluctantly at first, as if she’s afraid of giving too much away, but as the days pass, so does her hesitation.

Only once did she ask about Moira.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen her?” There’s a rare spark of vulnerability in her eyes. “I went to Ferelden many times but I could never find her.”

That knife of worry twists a little in his gut. “It’s . . .been a few years. She sends letters sometimes, so I know she’s not dead, but. . .it’s hard to write back to her. She’s in a different place every time.”

“I must admit, I’m surprised you didn’t go with her.”

Alistair glares down at her. “She left in the dead of the night without any warning to anybody. I wonder where she picked up that little trick?”

To his surprise, Morrigan’s gaze darts away in guilt.

“She tracked me down once, after the Blight, while I was still pregnant. She practically begged to come with me. I was so afraid that I couldn’t let myself see her as a friend or ally and I denied her.”

“She loves you,” Alistair tells her, not to twist the knife of guilt deeper, but to remind her of something he doesn’t think she hears very often. “She still loves you, no matter how much you tried to push her away. Even after that she would joke about being Kieran’s godmother and buying him toys that would irritate the hell out of you. I think she’s trying so hard to find the cure because she just wants more time with everyone – including you.”

Morrigan takes a long deep breath that sounds suspiciously shaky. “I deeply regret rejecting her company. I wanted to tell her in person, to have her meet Kieran, but I fear . . .I fear I will never see her again.”

He wants desperately to hug her or put his arm around her, to seek comfort in someone who knows how he feels, but this moment, this showing of her underbelly, is a rare and precious gift and Alistair doesn’t want to ruin it.

So he just sighs. “Me too.”

* * *

He finds himself staring at her more and more often. At twenty he thought her beautiful in a sinful, terrifying way that guilted him every time his eyes darted to her chest. He wasn’t trying to be vulgar at the time – he just couldn’t quite believe it. He had never seen so much skin on a woman, ever, and his mind just couldn’t comprehend it.

“You’re staring,” Morrigan says.

At thirty, he feels no guilt whatsoever in appreciating how Morrigan’s wild, exotic beauty has grown into something more subtle and sophisticated. She still wears dramatic makeup and her chest is still proudly on display but it feels different this time. Younger Morrigan took wicked delight in the scandalized looks she got – this Morrigan could care less. She carries with her a quiet self-assurance younger Morrigan only pretended to have.

Younger Alistair couldn’t keep his gaze from her chest. This Alistair can’t stop looking at her eyes – so addictively cryptic, their strange color hypnotic, the shape of them delicate and beautiful.

“I’m paying attention to you while you speak,” he says. “Isn’t that the polite thing to do?”

“Paying attention,” she scoffs, crossing her arms. “As if I couldn’t tell the difference. You’re just as transparent now as you were back then.”

“You’ve caught me. I am staring. I just can’t help but think you were right all those years ago.”

She gives him a wary look. “How so?”

“You don’t look a thing like your mother.”

There’s a pause – Alistair mentally jots this down as the first time he might have rendered her speechless.

“I dare say that is the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She means it as a joke or a tease but the comment hits him with a surprising amount of guilt.

“Is it really?”

“I suppose so. ‘Tis not like I kept a running record of our conversations.”

He laughs and it sounds so horribly awkward even to his own ears. “Yeah . . .that would be weird.”

Morrigan gives him the same look she has given him so many times before in their youth – the one where she clearly thinks he was dropped on his head as a baby.

* * *

Maker take him, but that comment bothers him. It follows him in his sleep until he gets up, bleary-eyed, and takes to the battlements for some fresh air.

He used to think it so entertaining to rile her up with those kinds of cracks about her and her mother. She outwitted him so many times in their verbal spars that he reached for any low-hanging fruit when it came to getting her back. Then it became all rather horrifying when they found out her mother’s twisted body snatching plans for Morrigan. He never made those type of remarks again after that, but still . . .

Alistair lets out of a groan of frustration. Why is he feeling so guilty about this? Certainly Morrigan doesn’t feel bad about all the times she called him stupid and useless and pathetic, knowing full well he was struggling with those doubts about himself.

But it galls him, the fact that the kindest thing he’s ever said to her – the most stubbornly independent, scarily intelligent women he’s ever met, the  _ mother of his child _ – is a call back to those cruel comments about her traumatizing relationship with her own mother.

What does that say about him? No, he and Morrigan were never friends but neither were they enemies. Young Stupid Alistair goaded her out of his insecurities and lost a potential friend. Older Not As Stupid Alistair knows she deserved the same gallant manners he always prided himself on showing others, even if she would have mocked him for it.

* * *

Kieran teaches Alistair the basics of chess, which have always eluded him, and he teaches Kieran how to play Diamondback. Alistair loses both games, happily, loving the tiny Morrigan-like smirk that plays in the corner of the kid’s mouth when he wins.

“You’re not letting me win on purpose, are you?” Kieran asks suspiciously after the third round of chess.

Alistair laughs. “No, don’t worry. I’m not – uh – a strategist like you and your mother.”

“That’s alright. You’ll get better with practice.”

Oh bless him and his optimism.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” says Alistair.

“Indeed.”

Morrigan appears and Alistair’s gut squirms with guilt. She stands behind Kieran and places her hand affectionately on his shoulder.

“Alistair taught me diamondback,” says Kieran, looking up at her.

Morrigan’s eyes flash over to Alistair. “Did he now?”

“Yes. I won these from the pot.” Kieran points to a small mound of pebbles and sticks on the side of the game board.

Her eyebrow raises. Of course Alistair wasn’t going to teach his son gambling with real money!

Morrigan drops a kiss on her son’s head. “Very good, little man. Did you notice that Alistair’s left eye twitches when he’s lying?”

Kieran giggles. “Yes. I did. That’s why it was so easy to win.”

“It does not!” protests Alistair, but Kieran nods at him sympathetically.

“It does,” he states simply.

“Well, perhaps I’ll play the next round with my eyes closed!”

“I’m not sure that would help you,” says Kieran, laughing again.

“I guess you will find out next time, won’t you? I intend on winning all of my rocks back.”

“Perhaps after dinner,” says Morrigan. “But you have arithmetic waiting for you, little man.”

“Alright,” says Kieran, hopping off the chair. “I’ll see you later, Alistair.”

“See you later, Kieran.”

“Diamondback, Alistair, really?” says Morrigan once he’s out of ear-shot. “What’s next, Wicked Grace?”

“You need four players for that. And don’t look at me like I’m the one corrupting the innocent when you used to terrorize the Kocari Wilds as a child. Did you teach him to turn into a giant spider before you went to Orlais?”

“Naturally,” says Morrigan and he can’t tell if she’s joking or not.

He gestures at the chess board. “Fancy a round?”

“I’m not sure. ‘Tis not a challenge to beat you.”

“But it is fun,” he says, grinning. The corner of her mouth twitches. He can’t help but feel victorious when she slowly lowers herself into Kieran’s vacated seat.

Alistair rearranges the chess board. It takes only a few minutes for Morrigan to thoroughly trounce him. Perhaps Younger Alistair would have been embarrassed by this, but Older Alistair admires her cunning. 

In a very non-sexual way of course.

“That was even easier than I imagined,” says Morrigan. “It’s almost insulting.”

“Sorry,” says Alistair. “You’re just very distracting.”

“Oh? Should I cover myself with a cloak for our next round? Or perhaps you should take your earlier suggestion and play with your eyes closed.”

“Not distracting like  _ that _ ,” says Alistair. “I’m not a cow-eyed virgin anymore – you made sure of that.” The smirk on her face is undeniable. “It’s just . . .something you said has bothered me. For days.”

“Did I hurt your feelings?” Morrigan asks, her voice dripping with disdain.

“No, but I think I hurt yours.”

Outrage flashes in her eyes before she schools her expression back to icy nonchalance. “Alistair, you have never said anything that hurt my feelings. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“It’s not flattery. I said you didn’t look like your mother and you said that was the kindest thing I’d ever told you. That’s wrong. It shouldn’t be like that.”

“I – Alistair that was a  _ joke _ .” She looks rather taken aback at his seriousness. “Twas not meant to be taken seriously. That’s just how we are.”

“I don’t like it, Not anymore. You’re a beautiful, intelligent, fascinating woman and you deserved better than me sniping at you because I didn’t know how to deal with my own insecurities.”

He forces himself to hold her stare rather than look away, despite his embarrassment. She looks absolutely floored, staring at him as if trying to figure out if he’s a desire demon in disguise or simply lost his mind.

“It wasn’t only you,” she says slowly. “I also lashed out any chance I could get. I picked you because, well, I thought you could take it better than most. I relied on that. But perhaps it was . . .harsher than you deserve.”

It’s more acknowledgment than apology, but it’s also more than Alistair ever thought he would get from her.

“Maybe we could start over?” he suggests, hesitant.

“I’m not sure that is possible after so long,” she says. “But we could . . .be different with each other.”

He sticks his hand out over the chessboard and she rolls her eyes before she takes it and shakes it. Her hand fits perfectly into his. He takes a moment to admire the tapered points of her long, elegant fingers.

His face feels as warm as his hands.

* * *

Things change and don’t change after that. Perhaps they had already decided to be different without realizing it. They still tease each other but the remarks are toothless and funny and not meant for pain. Their talks after Kieran leaves go on longer and longer until they carry over into dinner. They eat in the garden or up on the battlements, the wind playing with her hair.

One particular evening they eat in the garden, just the three of them, talking until the sun has dipped past the mountains. Kieran’s head starts lolling against his shoulder and these adorable tiny snores start slipping out.

Morrigan looks over at him and just sighs.

“He’s a very heavy sleeper,” she says. “He’s long since been too big for me to carry.”

“I got it,” says Alistair.

Kieran’s got some heft to him, but he doesn’t stir the slightest bit as Alistair picks him up, head lolling on Alistair’s shoulder.

“He’s certainly a growing boy,” Alistair grunts.

Morrigan smirks. “Are you sure you’re up to the task?”

“Did you forget that I was the dumb muscle?” he says, following her mage light through the garden.

“I thought that was Ogrehn.”

“We traded off.”

Morrigan leads him to a room off the side of the garden breezeway. It’s stocked modestly with two small wooden beds, a desk in the corner covered in books and papers and objects that cast some terrifying shadows that Alistair doesn’t look too hard at.

She points to one of the beds and he slowly lowers Kieran into it. The boy looks almost dead, he's sleeping so deeply. It’s a little weird.

“Are you sure he’s alright?” Alistair whispers.

“You don’t have to whisper,” says Morrigan. “He won’t wake until morning.”

“That’s . . .he looks  _ dead _ .”

Morrigan smothers a laugh. “He’s in the Fade.”

“Ah. Right.” He shifts his feet, suddenly awkward. “You know this is the first time we went an entire evening without fighting.” He’s not sure if it’s a joke or not.

“You were surprisingly tolerable,” she says and he knows now, by the glint in her eye, that she’s teasing him.

“I have my moments.”

Maker help him, but he can’t shake the thought that this whole evening has felt like a date. He wants, suddenly and very badly, to kiss her.

Like she wouldn’t castrate him just for having that thought.

A deeply awkward moment of silence stretches between them as he’s paralyzed by the both the desire and fear of such a kiss.

“Goodnight, Alistair,” she says. “I’m fairly certain I will see you on the morrow.”

“Yeah,” he says hastily. Maker, he must look like an idiot. “Sorry. I’ll go.”

“Are you alright?” Her eyebrow raises.

“Yep. Just – ahh – don’t kill me for this.” He swoops in and kisses her cheek, lightning fast. “Night, Morrigan! See you tomorrow!”

He ducks out of the door, walking fast enough to hopefully dodge a frost spell but not so fast that he looks like a  _ total _ coward.

Only silence follows him.

* * *

The next day Morrigan acts as if nothing happened. Either he kissed so hastily that she thought he tripped or she’s just biding her time until he lets his guard down before she does something unspeakably horrible to his nads.

His money’s on the latter and for two days he’s a nervous wreck around her, stuttering and twitching every time she shifts her stance.

_ Why _ did he do something like that? Was he  _ possessed?  _ He knows how picky she is about her personal space. Just because they had one night together – and a  _ child _ – doesn’t mean he gets to touch her whenever he feels like it.

But it had felt like the right thing to do in the moment. If it had been anyone else, perhaps, it would have been romantic.

Maybe he should apologize.

He definitely should apologize.

* * *

“Alright, out with it,” Morrigan says, hands crossed over her chest, as Kieran heads off for lessons.

“Out with what?”

How does she  _ know _ ?

“You've been playing the twitchy, tongue-twisted virgin for the past two days. Something we know you are not.”

Oh Maker, now he’s on the spot. A flush creeps up his neck, his ears burning with it, at the reminder of  _ that  _ night.

“I just – that night – I kissed you?”

“Yes,” she says slowly. “You did.”

“I’m sorry?”

She stares at him for a long moment, as if he had grown a second head and she’s debating on putting him out of his misery.

He fights the urge to look at his shoes. He’s a grown man for Maker’s sake, not a boy getting scolded by a Chantry Sister.

“Alistair, if I took umbrage with what you did, you would have known the second after you did it,” she says finally.

Is she angry or not? It’s impossible to tell. “If you took what?”

She sighs, deeply put-upon. Her bangs fluff with the movement. “If I didn’t like it you would have paid for it immediately,” she says slowly. “And dearly.”

“So . . .you liked it?” He can’t help the smirk that curls his mouth upward.

Her eyes flash. “I did not say that!”

“But you didn’t  _ not _ like it.”

“This conversation is over,” she says. “Goodbye, Alistair.”

He grins, like a sodding teenager, as she strides out of his vision.

* * *

The next afternoon Kieran is late. The last few days they’ve fallen into a sort of schedule. Usually Keiran finds him after lunch and Alistair always makes himself easy to find. Today Alistair swings a wood practice sword at one of the stuffed dummies, waiting to knock himself over the head when Kieran shows up just to hear his laugh.

But he doesn’t show up. Trying not to feel slighted – he is a kid after all and Morrigan is like a jail warden when it comes to his studies – Alistair runs through several practice drills until he’s sweaty and out of breath.

“Where is Kieran?”

Morrigan’s voice comes from out of nowhere and Alistair jerks violently, knocking himself on the head without even trying.

“Uh.” He turns to her, rubbing the back of his head. “He’s not with you? He never showed up for me.”

“ _ What? _ ”

They look at each other in horror, the color draining from their faces almost simultaneously.

“How long has he been gone?” Alistair asks, mind whirling.

“Two hours or so,” she says. “He wasn’t in the Great Hall or his bedroom or the garden.”

Her eyes widen with the kind of fear Alistair had never before witnessed on her face.

"It's alright," he hastens to assure her. "Skyhold is the most secure place in the world right now and, as you said before, he's not a reckless idiot."

"He's not a normal boy, Alistiar," she hisses. “Don’t be so cavalier!”

"That's not what you said before."

"Forget what I said before!"

They find him in the stables, feeding an apple to one of Harts, talking happily with a boy in a very large hat.

Morrigan relaxes ever so slightly next to him.

"See? He's making friends," says Alistair with a swell of pride. "Perfectly normal kid."

" _ That _ is a spirit who has taken mortal form," says Morrigan, rolling her eyes. "Hardly normal."

"Well," says Alistair bracingly. "Doesn't matter. A friend is a friend."

Neither of them seem willing to walk over and interrupt. Apparently a spirit friend is acceptable company, but Orlesian noble kids are not. Alistair n would know; he has met noble kids before. A spirit is probably far better companionship.

If they strain their ears, they can hear snippets of Kieran's conversation.

“I wonder what kinds of things they talk about?” he says.

"I am not eavesdropping on my own child," says Morrigan, though she makes no move to leave.

"We're not eavesdropping. We're . . .admiring the view."

“It’s loud, sometimes,” Kieran says to the spirit. “Especially when I sleep.”

“It’s lonely,” says the other boy. Alistair can’t help, but think of him as such under his too-large hat as he rocks on his heels. “It sings. Sad songs. Old songs. Dark songs. Nobody hears the songs anymore, silence falling on skeletons crushed by falling veils. But you hear, the songs are loud because you're the only one listening.”

Alistair leans in and whispers, “What are they talking about?”

“Skyhold, I think,” says Morrigan. “It has some kind of sentience. Kieran talks to it regularly.”

“I’m sorry,  _ what _ ? It’s  _ what _ ?”

She looks over at him, eyes sparkling. “This place is ancient and full of magic that’s compounded over thousands of years. You shouldn’t be surprised.”

“It’s  _ watching _ me?” his voice cracks a little. “When I –” He stops abruptly, face flaming.

“When you what?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Judging by the smirk on her face, she already knows.

He vows, in that moment, never to touch himself here again. Maker’s  _ balls.  _

Well, that’s what he gets for eavesdropping. Alistair finds himself no longer curious and they leave Kieran to his own devices.

* * *

Just when Alistair screws up enough courage to maybe try kissing Morrigan again and  _ not _ like a deranged school-boy, Ellana informs him that they’re packing up and heading to the Western Approach tomorrow.

And just like that, the happy little family bubble bursts into a thousand pieces. It’s not that he forgot about the whole sodding mess the Wardens have gotten themselves into, but the last few weeks made it feel so far away. A distant problem for another time.

Being with Morrigan had turned back time in a way. And honestly, he would rather deal with the Blight than this shit.

Ellana tells him fairly early that morning and he feels sick. He white-knuckles through a war table meeting and then skips breakfast and the training yard straight to his quarters.

Inside his travel satchel is a worn leather casing.

Inside of which are two stacks of letters.

The first stack has delicate creases and worn edges. The second are still crisp and pristine, as if written and then promptly forgotten about. Alistair takes out the second stack of letters and opens them up for the first time in years.

_ Hello Keiran! _

_ I am very jealous you saw both a big tree and a squirrel! I live in the city and there are no big trees out here. Just big buildings. That was very kind of you to give that squirrel an acorn. I hope he didn’t bite you. Every squirrel I’ve tried to befriend has tried to bite me. I’m starting to take it personally. _

_ Your father, _

_ Alistair _

_ P.S. I’m sure your mother will be reading this so hello Morrigan! _

  
  


_ Hello Keiran, _

_ When I was a boy I lived in the Chantry and all they had was boring history books. But you know what’s worse than boring history books? Boring religious books! I had lots of those too. And people get history wrong all the time because our memory is terrible, and people have different perspectives and also people lie all the time so that they don’t look like jerks. It’s a good thing you can tell when they’re wrong, even if you don’t understand it! _

_ But anyway, I am so proud that you finished your first grown up book! It takes a lot of effort to get to the end of a long book and it’s always so tempting to quit. If you get a good story book, tell me all about it! I know a good story book by a fellow named Tethras, but I don’t think you’re quite old enough for it yet. _

_ Your father, _

_ Alistair _

_ Hello Keiran! _

_ Look, kids are evil little jerks. Except you, of course. But everyone else . . .awful. I did not have a lot of friends growing up either. In fact, I didn’t really get friends until I joined the Grey Wardens and met Moira and your mother, who, in fact, did not like me at all! _

_ But it’s alright to be strange or awkward, as long as you are kind to others. Eventually you will find people who like you as you are and trust me – it is worth the wait. I don’t know what I would have done without Moira, to be honest. And I don’t think your mother does either – they were also very close during the Blight. _

_ As you grow up and you start exploring the world, you will find out there are so many other people weirder than you. The world is full of strange people. I thought I had seen it all and then I met your mum! And you know what – they get even weirder than her. So I wouldn’t be too worried, Kieran. I’m glad to listen to any strange thing that you say. _

_ Your father, _

_ Alistair _

  
  


What kind of idiot writes letters he can’t send? At first he didn’t, for multiple reasons:

  1. The idea was stupid
  2. Alistair had no idea what to say to a five year old? Six year old? He hadn’t talked to kids since he was a kid.
  3. _The idea was stupid_.



But it didn’t leave him. He found himself crafting responses when he couldn’t fall asleep or when the nightmares woke him. And then he found himself editing his own mental responses because the kid couldn’t have been more than five or six years old and Alistair tended to ramble. And then he just accepted that he was a moron who edited fake responses for clarity for a kid who would never read them and just started writing them down – just to get it out of his head.

As Keiran grew and his letters grew, so did Alistair’s. He would spend days figuring out exactly what he wanted to say before he wrote it down in the best handwriting he could manage and stashed it with the other letters.

Over the last five years or so Keiran sent him close to fifty letters and Alistair answered them all. And he kept them all on his person, carried them through every corner of Thedas.

He never thought in a million years he would actually  _ meet _ Kieran. These letters contain nothing but the silly ramblings of a silly man who never thought they would see the light of day.

Now everything has changed.

* * *

Usually he waits for Morrigan to find him, but today he seeks her out. He finds her in the garden, tending to a plant that looks straight from some kind of Fade nightmare. A lump forms in his throat at the sight of her careful pruning, dirt crusting underneath her usually flawless fingers.

Maker, he thinks he’s actually going to miss her.

“Hullo, Morrigan,” he says.

She spares him a brief glance before returning to her work. “Alistair. You’re here early.”

It feels curt and rather dismissive, but he pushes on, stepping closer to her.

“Yeah. I’m leaving tomorrow, for the Western Approach.”

“So I’ve heard,” she says.

She doesn’t look at him.

Well. He didn’t expect her to throw herself at his feet and beg him not to leave, but he also didn’t expect this level of apathy. It stings – though really he should be used to it by now.

Besides, Morrigan is not his concern at the moment.

“Look, I . . .have something. For Kieran. I wanted to make sure he got them because . . .well . . . I might not have another chance.”

That gets her interest. She perks up from the plant, setting down her clippers. “Make sure he gets what?”

Oh, Maker, is he really going to do this? Morrigan notices his hesitation and pounces on it, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“What is it, Alistair?”

He sighs – whatever. It’s not like Morrigan’s ridicule is anything new to him. And if she decides to burn them up then so be it. He tried.

He sits down on a nearby bench and pulls out the bundle of letters tucked away in his armor.

“Here,” he says, holding them out to her.

Morrigan takes them slowly from his hand, eyes flickering to him. Really? After all this time and she’s still so paranoid around him?

He can’t watch as she opens up the top letter on the stack, eyes tracking over his short, rambling missives. Instead he looks over at that weird nightmare plant, a spiky tentacle looking thing with thorns. It’s so ugly – no flowers, no greenery – but it must be rare for Morrigan to tend to it so.

It’s a little insulting that a plant like that gets more attention than he does, to be honest.

“Alistair.”

He drags his gaze reluctantly back to her. Her eyes, usually so inscrutable, look at him with soft surprise.

“You read his letters? You – wrote  _ back _ ?”

“Of course I read them,” he says. He swallows. “I loved getting those letters. I take them everywhere I go. And I wrote back because I wanted to – I wanted it to feel like –” he breaks off, his cheeks warm. “Look, I know it’s stupid –”

She sits down on the bench beside him, close enough that the heat of her thigh seeps through his breeches.

“It’s not stupid, Alistair,” she says quietly. “It’s . . .sweet, and thoughtful. Rather . . . like you.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in.

“I’m sorry, did you just compliment me?”

But Morrigan doesn’t rise to the bait. Her gaze pins him down, deadly serious.

“I’m starting to realize that I may owe you an apology. In keeping Kieran a secret, I thought I was protecting him. But in doing so I have denied the two of you a relationship that would have been beneficial to you both.”

“It’s alright,” says Alistair. “I know you were just trying to do what’s best. And for someone who had a shit example of motherhood, I think you’re doing a phenomenal job.”

“Thank you,” she says, gracing him with a small smile. “I must admit, motherhood ‘twas not what I expected it to be.”

“I also have to admit that I’m surprised you like it so much. When we did . . . that night . . .it just felt like the kid was a means to an end.”

“He was,” she sighs. “The first year of his life was a trial. Always needing me, completely defenseless, never let me sleep. But . . .as he grew he became his own person and I realized how very much I loved him."

She gives the bundle of letters back to him. “You should give these to . . .  _ our _ son yourself.”

The acknowledgment stuns him. He doesn’t realize how badly he wanted it until she gifts it to him and now it feels like the sun has broken open the clouds or whatever other poetic nonsense.

“Alright,” he says faintly.

This time, he isn’t a coward. Slowly, so she could pull away if she wanted to, Alistair brings his hand up to cup the side of her face. Her eyes widen but she makes no move to stop him, so he leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss on her other cheek.

The way he should have done the last time, rather than running like a school boy.

This close he can hear her small gasp brush against his ear and something in his stomach clenches.

He pulls away and sees with great satisfaction that she is blushing.

“Where can I find Kieran?” he asks her, pulling away rather reluctantly.

Maker if they weren’t in the garden and if it wasn’t in the middle of the day . . . 

“In his room,” she says, clearing her throat. “Tell him he has the day off from his lessons.”

He grins. “I’ll see you later then? Perhaps for dinner?”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

“It’s a date,” he says, rather cheekily.

* * *

Kieran is so happy to ditch lessons that Alistair can’t bring himself to ruin the mood by telling him the news. They spend the rest of the afternoon revisiting all the activities they enjoyed together – wacking each other with practice swords, racing around the courtyard, feeding the giant Nuggalope that rather unnerves Alistair if he’s honest, playing chess and cards. 

He listens to all of his son’s strange and admittedly rather disturbing comments and ramblings with encouraging smiles even if sometimes he’s screaming on the inside.

Finally, they smuggle giant turkey legs and hunks of bread and head up to the battlements to watch the sunset. It’s rather fitting to say goodbye where they first met.

For a long while Alistair can’t speak over the lump in his throat so he throws all his focus on devouring the turkey leg like some kind of starved marbari.

It turns out, he doesn’t have to say anything.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” the small voice asks. He takes delicate bites of his food, as if terrified Morrigan will appear and lecture on his manners.

“Yes.” Alistair sighs. “Tomorrow. What gave it away?”

“Mother never lets me miss lessons,” says Kieran. He cocks his head to the side. “The depths are screaming in Adamant. Someone needs to silence the fear. You’re worried you won’t come back.”

“No, I might not. Which is why I think it’s time to give you these.”

He reaches behind him and tugs out the leather case that contains his letters where he kept it tucked behind his belt.

“Remember when you asked me if I read your letters?”

Kieran slowly unties the leather string and looks down at the folded parchment nestled within.

“I did more than just read them. I answered them. Every single one. And I carried them around with me just in case I ever ran into you.”

Kieran stares down at the letters, wearing the same inscrutable expression of his mother. He unfolds one of the letters with careful hands, brow furrowed, as if he can’t quite believe they exist.

“I thought about you too, you know,” he says. “You might think it silly but I used to imagine all the time what you looked like. I would come home from a mission and imagine how I would turn it into some grand adventure story to tell you later. I hated that you didn’t know how much I wanted to meet you. That you couldn’t know.”

“I knew,” Kieran says softly, looking up. His eyes are wide and sad and so incredibly ancient. “I could feel it in the Fade when I looked for you.”

“Of course.” Alistair doesn’t have it in him to feel discomfited by the remark. Instead he’s just relieved that his son had a way to hear the truth for himself.

“Listen, Kieran.” He rests his hands on his son’s shoulders. The boy feels so small and delicate under Alistair’s rough hands. “I’m going to try with all my might to get back to you and your mother. And until I do, I want you to keep writing those letters. They’ll find their way to me. They always do.”

Kieran nods and then crushes his body against Alistair’, face buried in his chest plate. He might have the soul of an old god, but he cries just like any other child.

The next morning dawns bright and early and Alistair has never hated seeing the sun more than he does in that moment. The horses are packed and whinny impatiently by the gates as Ellana makes some last minute potion purchases in the courtyard. 

He fights a huge yawn – needless to say he did  _ not _ sleep well last night. Hopefully he won’t fall asleep on his mount and embarrass himself later today.

By the Maker, he does  _ not _ want to go. Being a Gray Warden has always been a mixed source of pride and resentment, but today it’s hard to swallow down his bitterness and remember his duty. Is this what Moira felt when she left to find a cure? At the time Alistair thought her careless regarding their friendship, that she could so easily dismiss it in favor of duty.

But now he realizes she probably left with every nerve within her screaming not to go. That her duty in that moment felt heavier than the burden of the world.

Just as his does now.

It’s hard to be what they are.

“Alistair.”

To his surprise, Morrigan appears in the courtyard. Last night, when Alistair dropped Kieran off for bed, she had made herself scarce. The room was empty and it stayed that way.

Which shouldn’t be a shock, really. Morrigan hates goodbye. But he couldn’t help feeling a little distraught regardless. It’s not just Kieran he does not wish to part from.

“Hullo, Morrigan,” he says, rather warily. She looks pissed off. Never a good sign.

With long, determined strides, she stalks up to him and he fights the urge to step back. Her fingers dig into the front straps of his armor and pull him to her in rather a spectacular kiss. It takes several moments for her to pull back, leaving him utterly dazed in her wake.

“If you do not return” she hisses, eyes narrowed. “I am going to find your spirit in the Fade and  _ make you suffer _ . Do you understand, you complete buffoon?”

“I understand,” he says faintly.

She releases him and then pats down the front of his tunic, as if she hadn’t held his life in her hands mere moments ago.

“Good. I wish you luck on your journey,” she says primly.

Then she turns around and stalks off to where she came from.

A heavy hand slaps Alistair in the back. Varric looks up at him and smirks.

“That’s going in the book.”

* * *

_ Dear Alistair, _

_ We are on our way to Weisshaupt. Don’t waste your breath or effort trying to convince me otherwise. I am tired of solitude. It’s completely idiotic, but you make me wish to try placing my faith in another. Perhaps it will not end so badly as I have come to expect of life in general. _

_ Kieran is quite excited to see you. You will find him rather . . .different than when we last parted. The soul of the old god has been taken from him. But he is healthy and still our son and you are relieved of your burden of hiding your discomfort at some of his remarks, as you have done so heroically. _

_ With Corypheus gone, we have much to share with each other. And if what I heard about your attempted heroic sacrifice in the Fade is true, I have much displeasure to make known to you. _

_ I look forward to it. _

_ Yours, _

_ Morrigan _


End file.
